


Sprezzatura

by rhysiana



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Naimah Nurse the ballerina sister, Perfectionism Isn't Actually Healthy, The Romance Here Is Very Early and Basically Just Implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/pseuds/rhysiana
Summary: In which Nursey learns that maybe effortless chill isn't all it's cracked up to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago, @gettzi posted [this great art](http://rhysiana.tumblr.com/post/154395703158/gettzi-omg-please-stop-stop-what-derek-am) of Nursey and his ballerina sister and I noted that I also headcanoned him with a ballerina sister because I had a whole headcanon about him and the concept of sprezzatura, a term I learned in ballet class and therefore so did he. I finally wrote it.

There was a period of about two years, back when Derek was just starting middle school, when he spent two afternoons a week, every week, doing his homework in the corner of his sister’s ballet studio. At first it was because their nanny didn’t have time to drop him off before Naimah had to be at her class, and once they were at the studio, it made far more sense to just stay until her class was over and then head back home together. Derek didn’t mind, did he? He totally minded. It was lame and stupid and… actually kind of beautiful… 

Maybe he didn’t mind. Maybe, even after the drop off scheduling conflict cleared up, he still found a reason it would be more convenient for him to go.

He soaked up a a lot of random stuff in those two years. A bunch of ballet French. An instinctive need to count things in eights. An affinity for waltz timing that would serve him well in later ballroom dance situations. An automatic need to correct his posture anytime he thought about a puppet string extending through his core and out the top of his head. And the concept of sprezzatura.

One thing he loved about sitting in the corner was that it was kind of like getting to look behind the curtain. Or at the inner workings of a clock. Ballet took _work_. And then it all came together.

“Girls,” called the teacher, clapping her hands twice for attention. “Girls, ballet is about _grace_. We are about to go into the annual performance. We are to give to the audience sprezzatura. I want the appearance of _effortless_ beauty. You are there to present art. The choreography, the music, it should flow through you. The audience is not interested in how many times you had to practice that phrase across the floor. They are only interested in the final result. Your goal is to make it look both flawless and easy.”

He looked it up later and discovered it wasn’t really a ballet term at all. The dictionary just defined it as “studied carelessness,” but Wikipedia gave more background: 

> _**Sprezzatura**_ [[sprettsaˈtuːra]](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FHelp%3AIPA_for_Italian&t=YjJjYzc5YmUzOGFkNmYyYmNkNDZlMWQ2NjZhOTg2NWFhYjIzOTFmMyxGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1) is an [Italian](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FItalian_%2528language%2529&t=MGYxOWVjNzY0N2M0NWRiYzE4NjdlYTU1MjRjMDQyY2Y3MDk5Njc5YSxGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1) word originating from [Baldassare Castiglione](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FBaldassare_Castiglione&t=ZGNiZjEzMjY3MzJkZjAxNjQ5NzgyY2Q1N2UyOGI2ZDRkZmRhMDZhOCxGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1)’s _[The Book of the Courtier](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FThe_Book_of_the_Courtier&t=NGQ1OTE5NTkzMjllMzA2ZjcxZjMyNWU1NjY4Y2U3MmExMDg4MmIyMCxGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1)_ , where it is defined by the author as “a certain nonchalance, so as to conceal all art and make whatever one does or says appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it”.[[1]](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSprezzatura%23cite_note-FOOTNOTECastiglione200232-1&t=MzRiMDhhNjM2MjJjNTE4YTY0MWNhZDIzNjcxZDNhNDJlMDA0OWI3NixGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1) It is the ability of the [courtier](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FCourtier&t=YTg4OGFkZDViNjdhNzAwMTZmNjI5YWU5YTU0MjUzNGZlYTI5NWJiNCxGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1) to display “an easy facility in accomplishing difficult actions which hides the conscious effort that went into them”.[[2]](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSprezzatura%23cite_note-FOOTNOTERebhorn197833-2&t=YjEwYTgwYzhhOGI1Nzg1NWUyZDkwNmMwM2ZiZDRhYWMyMTIxNjJiYixGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1) _  
> _

(Of course, it might have been helpful if he’d also noticed and remembered the following line as well:

> _Sprezzatura_ has also been described “as a form of defensive [irony](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FIrony&t=YzAzYjI2ZTA5YzdjZWI4OWEwOTk3NTFlOWY1MDc0YTU5NTEwNWU4MSxGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1): the ability to disguise what one really desires, feels, thinks, and means or intends behind a mask of apparent reticence and nonchalance”.[[3]](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSprezzatura%23cite_note-3&t=YjBlODc3MmFiYzI4YWExMTA5YWI0Y2RmNDNjZDg2MmM1NDViYzU3YixGUkRkbTlnZQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AA8nl1dXcQ42hQ4qj_cW_Jg&p=http%3A%2F%2Frhysiana.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156299241163%2Fsprezzatura&m=1)

But that was an issue for the future.)

***

“But, Naimah, you’re so good. Why didn’t you get the part? You know it way better than Jennifer does.”

Naimah continued stretching at the barre their parents had let her install in her room. It was just money, and it gave them a cute story to tell about their lovely ballerina daughter, so dedicated to her art. At least they didn’t make her perform at the family holiday party anymore. “They said I didn’t have the right look.”

Derek frowned. “You look like every other girl in your class, except taller than half of them.”

Naimah looked back over her shoulder. “Derek.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so I’ve just got to be twice as good,” she said matter-of-factly. “And act like I care half as much when the other girls try to rub it in my face.”

Derek didn’t really figure out what she meant until the next year, after she left for Andover, when he wrote an essay for a school contest and it came back with a teacher’s comment that it wasn’t his best effort. “I worked really hard on this!” he said to the teacher after class.

“Oh? Well, maybe writing isn’t really your strong suit. Do you like gym? Maybe basketball.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed.

He worked his ass off in English, and all his other academic subjects as well, for the rest of the year, but never said another word about how much time he’s spent on his homework or studying for tests. By the next year, he was “such a smart boy,” “so talented,” “such a natural.” Teachers suggested he enter things instead of him having to make sure they’d turned in his piece before the deadline.

He taped the definition of sprezzatura into the front of his planner and figured it was working.

***

Cultivating chill continued to work for him when he made his own way to Andover. “Make it look easy and like you care half as much” was quite possibly the best advice he’d ever gotten from Naimah, but, well, it meant he felt like there was a glass wall between him and all the friends he made. They all thought he was some sort of natural genius, and he didn’t want to do anything to disprove it. So he worked hard when no one was looking and was the chillest of chill when they were.

’S all good.

He found exactly one place where he could let himself relax: hockey practice. Because for once he was in an environment where trying hard was expected. If you mastered something, you pushed harder. You had to work with the team. He couldn’t get too into his own head, make it too individual. Hilariously, he turned out to actually be actually (for once) naturally good at hockey, so maybe nobody noticed the difference but him. As a bonus, they made him a defenseman, so he got to check people extra.

(He resolved to never, ever mention in his mother’s hearing, or possibly anyone’s, maybe only Naimah’s, how satisfying that was sometimes, because the one and only time he could remember having his mother’s undivided attention over the age of 5 was when she sat him down after his first adolescent growth spurt and explained to him that people were going to look at him and make assumptions based on his height, his skin tone, his hair, his… everything. Fighting, she emphasized, was not an option for him. And he got it, he did, though he tried not to think about it most days, because it was antithetical to his chill, but if he shouldered a jackass into the boards every once in a while with a little more force than necessary? That was just hockey.)

So now he had two things: sprezzatura and hockey.

And glass walls surrounding the real him that grew a little thicker every day…

***

William Poindexter was quite possibly the least chill person on the planet.

Derek enjoyed riling him up entirely too much.

It was, perhaps, not the most chill reaction on his own part.

But he continued to do his own homework mostly on his own, saving only the most bullshit assignments to work on around the team, and no one really seemed to notice, except Dex, who made caustic comments about liberal arts majors and slacking.

_If he only knew_ , Derek thought to himself, as he allowed himself to delete the six rough drafts of the essay he’d just turned in.

He looked across the library table at Dex, who was glaring at his computer screen and had one hand actually pulling at his hair in frustration, a thing Derek had only really seen described in books.

Would it really hurt if Dex saw him working, really working, on an assignment? Dex didn’t judge people for trying; rather the opposite, in fact.

Derek took a deep breath. He took out the lit analysis assignment he’d been saving for when he got back to his room and started making a list of all the sources he’d need, then got up to start grabbing them.

In his mind, he touched the glass. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second part, in which Nursey and Dex go to NYC to see his sister perform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written to fill a prompt request from @stultiloquentia.

Derek consciously told himself to unclench his teeth and relax his jaw. He hated calculus. So much. His brain simply refused to work the way the book and the professor seemed to think it should and he just needed to get through this class and then he’d have completed his stupid math requirement and never have to worry about it again. But first he had to pass it.

He was going to have to ask for help.

He hated asking for help.

He was going to do it anyway. _You don’t have to be perfect at everything_ , he reminded himself. He was still clenching his teeth again when he texted Dex, though.

 **Ice:** Yo, can you help me with calc?

 **Fire:** Be there in ~15 mins. Need help with English anyway.

Derek sat back in his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face, then rolled his neck from side to side a few times and shook out his arms, trying to just fucking _chill_ already. He found one of his wordless playlists to put on and tried to at least review the examples again before Dex got there so maybe he wouldn’t seem like a complete idiot. Ugh, he hated math.

Well, no, he just hated calculus. Or rather, the way calculus made him feel. He had never found a way to make calculus appear effortless for him, and he was getting really tired of grinding his teeth.

He was glad to get up and answer the door when Dex knocked. “C’mon in, man, you can sit wherever. My roommate has a new girlfriend, so he won’t care.”

Dex frowned at the thought of sitting on someone else’s bed without permission and dumped his bag on Derek’s bed instead. Which Derek had known he would do. He bit back a grin.

“So you had an English paper you needed help with?”

Dex sat on the bed and dragged his bag over to fish out his laptop. “Yeah. But let’s do your calc first. Shouldn’t take long.”

Dammit. Outwardly, though, he just shrugged. “All right.”

And it was true; with Dex there, it really didn’t take that long. Not that Derek really felt like he truly understood it, but at least it was done. He still felt far more comfortable when they turned to Dex’s assignment instead. Finally, something he was good at.

“So if you just read the assignment again, I think you can see that what your prof expects is a comparison of these two characters. Have you been talking about particular themes or anything in class? Because that’s usually a pretty good indication of what they think is significant. So just, like, take that theme, look at it from each character’s perspective, and say something about how it influences their relationship with each other, or the world, or whatever. That’ll get you a few pages, easy.”

Dex mostly just looked annoyed at this advice, but since he started making notes, Derek figured that was more about the assignment and less about him. “Wish I’d been lucky enough to place out of freshman comp,” Dex muttered.

Derek sat back in his desk chair and crossed his arms. “It wasn’t luck, it was acing the AP exam. That’s the point of placing out; I already know how to do this shit. It’s not like you’re in Calc 1.”

Dex reddened, but not in his super angry way, so Derek figured he’d made his point and let it drop. He was about to go back to flagging passages for his own lit assignment when Dex asked, “What are we listening to? This isn’t your usual stuff.”

Derek scoffed. “My usual stuff? I will have you know that my musical tastes are wide and varied.”

Dex chucked a pen at him, which he totally failed to catch, but he did at least manage to keep it from hitting him in the eye.

“But in this case,” he continued, “we’re listening to _The Rite of Spring_ by Stravinsky.”

“I didn’t know you were so into classical.”

Derek shrugged. “My sister was in this ballet. I have most of her scores.”

Dex’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Did I not…? My sister dances with a company in New York.”

“I’m not actually sure I knew you had a sister.”

Huh.

Some of his surprise must have shown on his face, because Dex added, “You don’t really talk about your family much.”

He wasn’t going to get into that. “Well, Naimah’s awesome.” He looked up at the calendar on the board above his desk. “And she’s starting in _Giselle_ next week. You and C wanna go?”

“Do what now?”

“Go down to the city and see my sister pretend to be a lovelorn ghost. I was going anyway, but we can get you guys tickets, too, no problem, and there’s space for you to crash.”

Dex drummed his fingers on his keyboard for a few seconds. “I… yeah, why not? You’re wrong, though. New York is not ‘the city.’”

“Says you, lobster boy.”

Derek just laughed as Dex flipped him off.

***

As it turned out, Chowder couldn’t go because he already had plans with Farmer for the weekend now that both the hockey and volleyball seasons were done. Which was how Derek found himself shepherding Dex through his first trip to the ballet.

“You seem more chill about this than I expected,” he said, bumping shoulders with Dex.

“Say ‘chill’ one more time…” Dex muttered. “It’s just like one of my own sisters’ recitals, just bigger. I am not completely ignorant of how the arts work, Nursey.”

“Glad to hear it. So, like, the story is there in the front of your program, but I can run it down for you, if you want. This is, like, the sixth time Naimah’s been in _Giselle_.”

Dex coughed. “I, uh, I actually looked it up before we came.”

Derek smiled at him. “Bro.”

“Shut up.”

The lights dimmed and Derek settled back in his seat to watch his sister die gracefully.

***

They were waiting for her by the stage door when she came out with a few of the other dancers. Derek let out an obnoxious whistle. “That leg extension, doooo,” he called.

Naimah and her friends laughed. “Nice to see you, too, Derek,” said a blonde girl.

He nodded regally at her. “Ekaterina.”

She kissed Naimah on the cheek and waved. “See you tomorrow!” The group headed toward the subway.

Naimah turned to Derek and Dex. “So, boys, what’d you think?”

“Nursey didn’t tell me you were the lead,” Dex said, sounding impressed.

She linked her arms through both of theirs and headed them down the sidewalk. “He’s so humble, our Derek.”

Dex snorted.

“You’re staying with me, right?” Naimah asked Derek.

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t even tell them I was coming.”

“I don’t think they’re even in town anyway.”

Derek caught a glimpse of Dex out of the corner of his eye. His eyebrows were drawn down in a frown and he was studying the sidewalk like he was trying to give them privacy. But then they were in front of Naimah’s building and Derek didn’t have to deal with it.

“When we dropped our stuff off earlier, I thought this was your parents’ place,” Dex said as they entered.

“Nah,” Derek said. “They gave Naimah this place when she got her spot in the company. It’s more convenient to the company location.”

Dex got that weird look on his face he always got whenever Derek said anything that indicated his family was rich. Derek stifled a sigh and hit the button for Naimah’s floor.

He felt his shoulders relax fully when he followed Naimah into the apartment, though. Finally. He took a deep breath and then let himself collapse on the couch. “Mmmm, home.”

Naimah ruffled his hair on her way to her room with her dance bag. Dex, though, was still standing kind of awkwardly at the edge of the living room. Derek raised himself up on an elbow. “You need anything? I can get you a soda or whatever.”

“Um, sure,” Dex said. He followed Derek into the kitchen. “Why did you say this was home? Isn’t that your parents’ house?”

Derek grabbed two sodas from the fridge and shut the door, smiling at the papers held there with sarcastic magnets. He touched one of them, an essay with a big red A at the top and, he knew, a paragraph of teacher’s notes on the final page. He turned and handed Dex one of the bottles, then leaned back against the counter.

“You know what’s on our parents’ fridge?”

“What?”

“Well, nothing, because it’s stainless and magnets won’t stick to it, but what they keep on their metaphorical fridge are framed copies of my poems from lit magazines and Naimah’s publicity shots from whenever she has a lead.”

“Okay…”

“And, like, that’s great and all, we’re happy they seem proud. But do you know what Naimah has on her fridge here?”

“What?”

“Papers and poems I was really proud of. Ones I put a lot of work into. Ones that actually mattered, instead of the one that was pulled out of the half-dozen I sent in to the journal because it fit the editor’s theme best that month.”

Dex tilted his head as he studied the things on fridge door, taking in the pictures of Naimah and Derek together in New York and other cities around the world. Their parents did not feature in any of them. “And what does she post on the fridge?”

“Her first pointe shoes are on the bookshelf in the living room. We didn’t have a magnet strong enough,” Derek said with a wry twist of the mouth.

“Do your parents really not notice that you basically live with your sister?”

Derek shrugged and took a drink. “We went to boarding school and then college. They haven’t actually expected to see us at more than holidays for years. They’re busy.”

Dex frowned at the floor, took a drink of his own, and then looked up and said, “Well, I’m glad you have a home here.”

“Yeah, me too. Now let’s go watch stupid TV with Naimah until she comes down off her adrenaline high and falls asleep.”

***

The next week, back at Samwell, Derek got his calc test back. They were all at the Haus eating pie when Dex asked how he had done, and when he showed him the B circled at the top, Dex plucked the paper from his hand and walked across the kitchen to stick it to the fridge.

“Now you’re home, man.”

Derek took an extra large bite of pie to avoid having to say anything for a minute. Maybe he had to blink a few extra times as well.


End file.
